


Blessings From a Doe

by Bakuras



Series: A Marriage of Kings [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, Engagement, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakuras/pseuds/Bakuras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard asks for Thranduil's hand in marriage.  His answer isn't immediate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessings From a Doe

The day the dragon slayer asked for his hand, Thranduil did not give an answer.  Bard had expected as much - as true and honest as their love for one another was, remarrying was all but unheard of for an elf, and to pledge himself to a _human_ of all things would have been absolutely out of the question for him, normally.  It wasn’t a matter of _class_ , Bard knew.  Neither of them felt that the other was either above or below themselves in worth.  But life span for a man is finite, and Thranduil had already felt his heart gored from his chest once before.  To wed a man with less than half of his years left would guarantee the Elvenking another thousand years of mourning, of attempting to cope with the loss of not one, but _two_ soulmates that _should_ have been with him to the end of time.  Time itself would rob him in the same way that war had so very long ago, and the King of Dale knew that a  positive answer was unlikely, if not impossible.

Bard _did_ half-expect that Thranduil would disappear into the dense thicket of the forest, unseen and unheard for at least a week as he brooded long and silently over his answer.  It would have been understandable, too - and in the moments that Thranduil looked at his eyes, then down at his hands, silently - Bard considered whether asking for the Elvenking’s hand in marriage was a grave, horribly offensive mistake. 

But what he was met with was a soft hand in his own, tugging him forward. 

The elf was all but silent as he led Bard up a narrow path, deeper into the woodland realm than he had ever dared go before.  It was dark, the road thin - but Bard did not fear a misstep.  Light and gentle as Thranduil’s touch was on his hand, the dragon slayer knew better than underestimate it.  Elven strength outmatched his own a hundred fold, and his reflexes were faster and more fine-tuned than nearly any creature in Middle Earth.  Should Bard fall, the Elvenking would catch him with little effort, if any.

Thankfully, his steps were sure enough to keep any of that from happening in the first place.

The path eventually opened up just after its narrowest point - into a room that resembled more of a platform than anything else, carved from the trunk of a tree that was larger than any Bard knew existed.  It was clearly ancient, as most of the kingdom, but no trace of rot or cracking had so much as begun to infest it.  He heard stories of the forest in his youth - the trees that never withered, streams and rivers that never ran dry.  But to be here, to see the thriving kingdom for himself was a different beast entirely.  It was as if he was walking through the veins of the Elvenking himself. 

Thranduil let go of his hand as they approached the center of the room.  He continued to walk to the edge of the trunk, to the space where it opened up and revealed the night sky and the tops of the trees below.  Bard wondered to himself if this was the only place in Mirkwood that was truly open to the outside forest - the only room within those walls to have sun and moonlight soak into its’ rings. 

Bard’s Sindarin was mediocre at best, and what he did understand of it was doing him no help here.  Thranduil’s words were muttered softly, quickly, probably inaudible to anyone who hadn’t practiced the language for ages.  The dragon slayer spent a few minutes trying to pick up on even _one_ word, but soon gave up after realizing it was all but hopeless.  

The hours that passed like this did not drive Bard to boredom, or to consider leaving this spot.  Regardless of what he could or could not understand of what Thranduil was whispering, it was clear that this was important to him.  He would not have led him to that room if it wasn’t.  It was a bit awkward, sure - Bard wasn’t sure what would or wouldn’t be rude in this situation (the decision to sit down took him a good twenty minutes at least) but he could adjust.  The people of Dale knew he could be gone for several weeks on this trip, so it wasn’t as though they were expecting him back.  

The sun had rose and fallen again, and Thranduil had not moved.  Nor had Bard. 

"King Bard of Dale." 

Bard recognized the voice as Feren, an elf who worked closely under Thranduil.  He turned, looking over his shoulder and nodding silently. 

"I expect you’re hungry.  Come."  

"I am well enough.  I do not wish to leave him."

Feren stepped into the room, offering his hand to help Bard up off the floor.  “I will lead you back here when you are fed and rested.  The lives of men are fragile as is, the king would not see you jeopardize that further.”

Bard hesitated. Feren would know better, he supposed, and he didn’t want to disturb Thranduil by asking - 

"Leaving would pay him no disrespect." Feren said.  "And as promised, I will return you to this place when you are properly rested." 

After a glance back at Thranduil, who did not seem to notice Feren’s intrusion (and if he had, he certainly wasn’t acknowledging it) Bard quietly stood.  Surely Thranduil would want him to eat at some point.  And if Feren didn’t think it would be disrespectful, he could trust his judgement. 

-

After spending weeks in Mirkwood at a time, Bard had almost stopped craving meat altogether.  He even ate less of it at home (which Sigrid never passed up an opportunity to tease him for) so the greens and roots that Feren served him filled him up plenty. 

He ate in silence for the most part, mainly pondering whether it would be rude to ask what Thranduil was doing up there.  Feren seemed to know, after all, but would outright asking be insensitive of him?  He still wasn’t _entirely_ attune to elven social customs, no matter how much time he had spent around them as of late. 

Apparently, elves were even more perceptive than Bard had given them credit for, because almost on cue Feren spoke. 

"You asked for his hand."

At that, Bard just about choked. 

"Do not be startled." The elf continued  "The words he spoke in the hidden room did not hide much.  Though as I understand it, you wouldn’t know."  He came to sit beside Bard at the table -  it wasn’t uncomfortably close, but it was enough that Bard knew that what Feren was telling him was for his ears only.  Bard shifted in his seat.  

For all he knew, he was about to be berated for _daring_ to court the heart of an immortal with no hope of following him into death.  For asking the hand of a king who had married for _life_ before even ancestors were born, for inevitably crushing him once again whether he accepted or not.  This would not end well for Thranduil, and he knew it. It was horrifically, _unbelievably_ selfish of him to ask, or to even court him in the first place, no doubt. 

But the words he _was_ met with caught him a bit off guard.

"Míreth.  Do you know that name?" 

Of course he knew it.  Feren knew he knew it.  Or at least, he ought to, unless his opinion of Bard was in fact so low that he did not believe him to remember the name of the late Elf-Queen of Mirkwood. 

He answered the question with a silent nod.  It seemed enough for Feren.

"He is asking for her blessing."

The breath Bard took next was shaky and slow.  He almost wondered if a lecture on what this would eventually do to Thranduil would be less anxiety-inducing than asking what he knew he **had** to ask eventually. 

~~_Do you think he will get it?_ ~~

The words were forming in his mouth, all he had to do was breathe them out into the open space.  But they caught behind his teeth, and he found himself stuck debating for the better part of a minute if he was prepared to hear the answer. 

He wasn’t.  He wasn’t ready for that. 

"…Bard of Dale." 

He looked up at Feren once more, praying to whatever god his children believed in that he couldn’t sense the fear in his eyes, the trembling in his breath.  A hopeless thing to beg for, surely.  Even a _man_ could see how much distress the question caused him even before he had the courage to ask it. 

"Her Majesty is neither cruel nor jealous.  If she has a way to give her blessing to the king, she will."  He paused for a moment, waiting for Bard to meet his eyes.  When he did speak, it was soft.

"To deny him happiness would be unlike her."

Bard really shouldn’t have been surprised at all.  He knew the same would be said of Annette if there were somehow a way to ask her.  In a way, he felt that she had already given her blessing through their children - that their (incredibly enthusiastic) approval was influenced in some form by her spirit. Perhaps it _was_ wishful thinking, but he knew that Annette, with all of her vibrancy, her excitement to experience every small thing that came their way to the fullest she could -  would never ask him to walk through the rest of his life alone.  

"What was she like?" Bard found himself asking quietly. 

"She was kind.  Brave.  She would have died a thousand times over if it meant securing the safety of her kingdom.  Her sense of humor seemed effortless - she always did seem to bring light into even the darkest corners of every soul she touched."  

Feren stood, moving to get another plate of vegetables to give to Bard after he had finished the one he was working on.

"…So not unlike you, if what I hear from the king is true."

The dragon slayer felt his stomach twist itself into knots.

-

Bard had expected Míreth’s blessing to come in the form of a massive flower blooming in the center of the hidden room, or in an pink and gold aurora set against the stars in the night sky.  Announcing her approval to the entire population of Mirkwood in some way that was flashy and almost supernatural.  Perhaps even more subtle than that, with the voice of a bird or a flock of a million butterflies ascending into the clouds.  In any case, the gesture would be beautiful, unmistakable and undoubtedly huge.

But her approval came in the form of a half-dressed, hungry, disgruntled elf-prince with one boot on his foot and the other nowhere to be found.

It had not even been two hours from the time that Feren led Bard back up to the hidden room that one Legolas Greenleaf - empty-handed except for one shoe, a broken, empty quiver, a threadbare tunic and what looked to be half of a bowstring - made his way into the kingdom.  It was to the shock of almost all the elves who lived there - had the prince not made the decision to leave only four years ago?  Was he injured?  Did he bring bad news from the far North?  Whispers and rumors of the princes’ return began to spread from the moment he entered the gates, and by the time Feren had actually led him into the hidden room to see his father, there was not an elf in Mirkwood that was left unaware of his arrival. 

It was in the moments after Legolas walked through the door that Bard realized how well Feren knew the two of them.  From the breath that the prince lost, he had not been informed of the king’s current state beforehand, and Feren had refrained from asking _him_ any questions until they were within earshot of his father. 

Thranduil did not look back or open his eyes, but his words did stop.

"Father - " 

There was no answer, but Thranduil was listening.  Everyone in that room could hear the steady, measured breath he took at the voice.  Legolas took a step forward, but only one.  And then his eyes shifted to Bard.

Instead of remaining silent and allowing Legolas to begin asking his _own_ questions, Feren interjected.

"What has brought you back to this kingdom in such a state, Legolas?"

There was a pause in the room as Bard, Legolas and Thranduil began to piece together what Feren seemed to already know. 

"I was urged south by a lone thresh not six days ago."  He began, speaking slowly, softly.  Far less sure in his words than Bard had heard him any other time.  "Her voice had a dialect I recognized, and I _know_ I recognized,  though I did not remember where from.”  

Bard swallowed.  Thranduil was clearly withholding his breath.  Feren’s expression did not change.

"She asked me to rest just two miles beyond this border.  She told me to drink from the stream, that I must be thirsty and weary.  I…"  

…

"…I do not know why I listened."

He took another pause, walking another three steps toward his father.  Absurd as it was, Bard suddenly felt distinctly out of place - like the silence between them that hung for only a few seconds was so intimate that he was somehow an intruder, an eavesdropper exposed to family secrets that he truly had no business hearing.  But Feren caught his eye and nodded slowly, and that somehow seemed to help, at least a bit. 

It wasn’t until Legolas was knelt down beside his father that he spoke again. 

"My things were stolen.  Not by elf or orc or spider, I’m afraid."

Thranduil opened his eyes for the first time in days.  He didn’t move from his knelt position, but he looked at his son, his breath still steady, measured and almost _trembling_. 

From across the room, Bard thought to himself that he had never seen the Elvenking look so unsure.

"…When I returned, my armor - my food - all of my arrows and one of my shoes were in the possession of… " 

"…Legolas - " 

…

"… a white doe.  Some draped in her mouth, some of it slung across her back." 

Bard had heard legends about the speed and agility of elves.  Even namely Thranduil himself - his men who had seen him enter Dale during the great battle for the mountain told many a tale of it.  The way his body moved as though it was a force of nature that dealt more damage than a monsoon and moved thrice as fast as its’ strongest winds - but Bard had never seen it himself.  He had no real idea of the speed at which the Elvenking could move until he saw him gather his son into his arms and hold him close. 

If Bard did not feel out of place _before_ , he certainly did now.  

That level of intimacy was rarely (if ever) witnessed from Thranduil, even, (it seemed, from the way even Feren seemed to shift his weight) by his closest and most trusted guards.  Bard felt half awkward and half _overwhelmingly privileged_ to see the King in such a way, holding his son closer than nearly any other elf ever felt necessary to do.  Such a close physical gesture was almost unheard of among their kind. 

It seemed strangely appropriate now, though. 

-

Both Feren and Legolas were still present in the room when Thranduil accepted the small, silver band that Bard slipped upon his finger.  With the blessing of both Míreth and Legolas himself - who had not seen his father so casually at ease with another person for as long as he could remember, the engagement was set, and deciding the wedding date was not far off.  It could wait a while, though.  As could all the details they needed to hash out before then.  

Tonight, after all, the King had a party to throw.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> SO this was meant to be a wedding fic, but the engagement itself (which I had meant to keep contained to a few paragraphs at most) ended up taking on a life of its' own, so I decided to go ahead and publish this one separately, and write the actual wedding as a sequel. B)
> 
> That part will be out soon!! :'D


End file.
